Chapter 41
Chapter
Forty-One
Aowen and I are breakfasting in the sun parlor a few weeks later when the banging starts.
“What is that?” I mutter, shoving half of my blackberry-jam-slathered crumpet into my mouth before following her out of the room.
In the near-empty halls, we pass only the barest hint of staff—who, we’ve been assured by the staff themselves, are all grossly overpaid and here out of a devotion to their solitary duke.
As we take the west stairs up to the second floor, the pounding grows louder and more frequent. Wood splinters and something crashes before we rush into a guest room where all the furniture has been pushed to one side and draped with drop-cloths.
Sabre turns at our entrance, stirring the dust floating through spears of sunlight and settling on his horns.
He’s holding a sledgehammer, its head buried in a half-demolished wall.
His chest is heaving and his shirt is sweat-soaked, the sleeves pushed up his forearms. A triangle of hard muscle covered in dark hair is plainly visible beneath his open collar, and dangling suspenders bracket a very well-formed backside.
Aowen’s hand is at her throat. She’s been struck speechless, breathing nearly as heavily as Sabre himself while they stare at each other.
Sabre breaks the spell first. “Yes? What do you want?”
Rude question for a man in the midst of destroying his own house.
Aowen squares her shoulders, readjusting her regal mask. “The terrible racket you’re making interrupted our breakfast.”
Sabre pulls the sledgehammer from the wall, then props it on his shoulder, his muscles bunching beneath translucent linen.
Aowen swallows as he prowls toward us. “This is my home, Lady Macán. And if I want to do some light renovation, I’ll make as much racket as I damn well please.
I had no idea you had such delicate sensibilities. ”
“Delicate?” Aowen scoffs. “You’ll find I’m made of stronger stuff than most, Your Grace. If you’re lucky.”
Sabre’s lip twitches upward before he forces it into deep scowl.
“And what do you mean by ‘renovation’?” she asks.
Sabre swings the sledgehammer down, placing the head between his feet, then brushes his hands together. The resulting cloud of dust sends both Aowen and me into mild coughing fits.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I intend to turn Cernunnos Manor into transitional housing for those fleeing Campan’s Vale.
This place is far too large and empty. Might as well use it to offer a safe haven for the displaced.
I’ve wanted to do it ever since Torvil sent his forces to the Vale but lacked the conviction to start. ” He looks to me. “Until now.”
Our talk about Granny Maggie last week must have been more powerful—or therapeutic—than I thought.
Aowen’s hand has risen to her throat again, where a splotchy red flush steals across her skin. Her mouth is moving, but nothing is coming out. And the way she’s looking at Sabre … I don’t think that physical wall is the only thing he’s just knocked down.
I come to her rescue. “Do you intend to do this work by yourself, Your Grace? Could your staff not help you?”
Sabre grunts, “They’ve enough to focus on with their regular responsibilities. They do not need the burden of additional tasks.”
Aowen snaps back to attention. “The Thompson boys over on Ackerley lane would be delighted to help. As would Mr. Shelbourne. He built his own house, you know. He’s got a fine eye for construction.”
Sabre’s expression darkens. “Making friends in my territory already, are you? How often have you visited the Thompson boys, then?”
I wince. Poor Sabre has no idea to whom he just revealed his hand.
Aowen’s smile is smooth, practiced. She’s regained at least some of the power she forfeited while drooling over his workman’s attire.
“I have spent my days visiting as many of your people as I can. There’s a very real possibility that one day they will be my people, too.
” Her voice softens a little. “You should know they speak quite fondly of you, even though you have not deigned to meet with them for—”
“Do not tell me how to run my territory, woman,” Sabre snarls, stepping closer.
“I wouldn’t have to if you’d made any effort to do so yourself,” Aowen parries, not backing down an inch.
Their fangs are bared, their eyes narrow slits, and I honestly cannot tell if they are about to kill or kiss each other.
I anchor my gaze to the floor to hide a delighted grin.
But before a brawl—or a heavy petting session—can begin, hooves clomp up the dirt road leading to the estate, followed by shouting and scuffling from the front yard.
Sabre hurries to the window, then barks out a “Stay inside” to Aowen before he dashes from the room.
Aowen shakes her head. “He really hasn’t the faintest idea who he’s dealing with, does he?”
“None whatsoever,” I chuckle as she and I head downstairs and out the front door.
On the lawn, a young couple, each clutching a wailing child, exit a kelpie-drawn cart being driven by Garred Smythe of all people. He jumps down from the driver’s bench, then brandishes the broadsword I’ve seen him train with at the Eyrie.
Three celestial knights are halfway up the entrance road when Sabre barrels around the manor mounted on Skadi and holding two curved daggers that resemble scythes. Or his horns.
He herds Garred and the family behind him, then notices Aowen and I have come out to help.
“Thought I told you to stay inside,” he grumbles.
Aowen’s only response is to laugh at him.
I’m about to ask Garred what’s happened when the celestial knights square off against Sabre and Skadi. I recognize the beefy blond who led me to the church in Campan’s Vale.
“Step aside, Your Grace,” the knight says. “These people are dangerous criminals. Missed the past four tithes and have illegally journeyed through a luxbridge to escape justice.”
The father, a scholarly-looking man with curly brown hair and glasses, holds his wailing daughter tighter, ready to defend himself before Sabre answers for him.
“I don’t care if they murdered the duke himself. Neither you nor Torvil have any authority in Tír na Dubh. Get the fuck off my property before I feed your entrails to Skadi.”
The knights’ kelpies pull at their bridles, rearing up as Skadi nips at their legs.
Sabre leaps from her back, then swipes his daggers together in a whisper of steel. “Now.”
The blond knight sneers. “His Grace will not forget this insult, Cernunnos.”
“After he loses the Wild Hunt, he can take it up with the new king.”
Skadi lunges, swiping a bony paw at the knight on the left, who screams in a terribly undignified manner before racing away. The two others follow, Sabre’s booming laugh mingling with their clanking retreat.
Aowen must have forgotten herself again, because the fire in her eyes as she stares at him could ignite the damp moors.
I turn to the family, reaching my arms out to the mother—a tall blond woman crying tears of relief—who passes me her young son. He cannot be a day over two. A dangerous criminal, indeed. I soothe and bounce her child to the tune of her thanks.
“You’re safe now,” Aowen proclaims. “Please, come inside and make yourselves comfortable. I’ll ask Cook to put some food out.”
Sabre nods his agreement, not a single breath of protest at Aowen welcoming the family into his household.
The father turns to Sabre, his daughter refusing to release him. “We didn’t know where else to go. They were demanding over half our annual harvest. When we refused, they burned our fields, commandeered our farmhouse. Garred said we could come here, but that we might be early, and—”
“You need not explain yourself to me, sir,” Sabre interrupts. “You and your family are welcome to stay as long as you need.”
The little girl pulls back from her father’s neck, sniffing away tears as she blinks at Sabre’s horns. Her father puts her down to shake Sabre’s hand. “Thank you, Your Grace. You’ve saved us.”
“You saved yourselves. I had little to do with it,” Sabre answers gruffly, pulling his hand from the man’s grip and gesturing toward the house.
The rest of the family walks away, but the little girl stays, goggling up at Sabre while he peers down at her.
The silhouette is quite comical; her head barely crests his knees.
“Yes? What is it?” he growls, supremely uncomfortable. I wonder how many children he’s met in his life?
The little girl throws her arms around his legs, squeezing so tightly he nearly falls off balance. She doesn’t utter a word. Nor does he. He merely hovers a hand over her head, like he doesn’t trust himself with something so fragile.
He gently pats her hair, once, twice. She unlocks his legs, beams up at him through a holey smile, then dashes away toward her family.
That fiery look in Aowen’s eyes melts into something almost wistful. As soon as Sabre catches it, she huffs and stomps up to the house.
Garred approaches, reaching out a hand which Sabre takes with a grimace.
Too much touching for one day, I imagine.
“My apologies, Your Grace. The Eyrie’s bursting at the seams and I didn’t know where else to take them.
I know you’re not operational yet, but Mr. and Mrs. Harroway are both extremely skilled carpenters. They’d be happy to help.”
“We’ve got more than enough; we’ll make it work.
” Sabre hooks his daggers under his belt.
“Speaking of, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to mine.
I’ll send one of the stableboys to fetch your kelpies.
He’ll feed and water them before you head back to the Vale.
” He whistles for Skadi, who lopes down the road from where she was supervising the knights’ exit and follows him back around the house.
Garred swivels toward me, and I offer him a warm smile.
“Miss Fitzroy.” He takes my hand and plants a cordial kiss on the back. “It’s been a while. Are you well?”
I shrug. “As well as can be expected.”
“Duke’s a bristly one, isn’t he? Was shocked as hell to receive his letter last week, telling me about his plans for this place.”
“Oh, no, that’s not what … He’s been very generous with us.”
“How is your search for the third piece of the Bannrhorn coming along?” He removes the harness from his kelpies, then settles the shaft on the grass.
“Well, yes. Very well indeed. I’ll have it any day now, I’m certain of it.” It’s not that I don’t trust Garred, but Sabre’s secret is not mine to expose. Plus, there’s a more important question I’d like to ask, one that’s been burning a hole in my chest since Garred arrived.
“How fares Sir Cathal?”
Garred tilts his head. “He’s not here?”
I burble a laugh. “You think Lachlan would’ve passed up a chance to intimidate Torvil’s knights?”
“Point fairly made.” Sabre’s stableboy jogs up to us, and Garred hands over his kelpies’ reins. “I assumed he was with you; I haven’t seen him in the Vale for weeks.”
I blink. “Does that happen often? Extended amounts of time between his visits?”
“Only when he’s done something to upset Desmond, who then shortens his leash.
Desmond always wins.” I wouldn’t have expected to see the sneer on Garred’s face, especially not about the duke who, by all accounts, saved Lachlan’s life.
“When he thinks Lahclan has strayed too far outside his influence, he likes to remind him of that.”
“Oh.” I fear I’m incapable of a more coherent response.
“May I offer you a piece of advice, Miss Fitzroy?”
“I’d be glad of one.”
He takes my hand, pats the back. “Go easy on him.”
I attempt to pull my hand away, but he doesn’t let go. “I’m not sure what you’re—”
“Lachlan is a giver. He gives and gives and gives and gives and expects nothing in return. Sometimes I wish he’d be a bit more selfish. Demand more from the world. Even if what he wants most will cut the deepest.”
What can I say back to that?
Garred pats my hand again, then releases me, and I watch as his ash-colored coils disappear around the side of the house.
I stand in the front yard for a long while, contemplating his send-off.
The things we want most cut the deepest, indeed.